Fort Bradley wasn’t the last stop in the Galaxy, but you could see it from there no matter which way you looked. The entire planet, while classified as an Earth-equivalent, had very little in common with anything anybody anywhere would have called home. It was a rock with scrub on it, just enough water to make it survivable, and Fort Bradley dropped right down in the middle of it. It was a station run by the American military and, while the population was primarily American Army, almost every nation on planet Earth that was bigger than Rhode Island had troops stationed there. Most of them returned knowing where old soldiers went to fade away. However, it did have one unique aspect—the orbiter that rotated around it.
Having seen the tremendous profits made by those who would enterprise at the bars and clubs of dark spots as Salo Majoris, a number of different worlds had incorporated their efforts and materials and created a station for the extreme entertainments of the troops and whoever else was foolhardy enough to venture into the audial range of a dead black hole. The folks did the manning of the station from the Lynx sector of space that just coincidentally happened to be unisexual, which may have accounted for their extremely cordial and rather jocular nature. While it was listed on star charts as an R & R station, those who had been there simply referred to it as Little Boston, equating it with the once infamous Blue Light district of that pious old city.
It did not take the shopkeepers, bar owners, hookers, conmen and other assorted entrepreneurs long to learn what many of their counterparts on old mother earth had learned—there is nothing an American military man can break that the American military won’t pay for, and usually at three or four times the original value. There were in fact several bars that, as a matter of routine, got brawled to pieces on a Saturday night and were paid off in cash, script, or materials on Sunday morning by the commander of the base.
Despite the obvious advantages of such an arrangement, a number of small businessmen—who had quite honestly been conned by the home company into packing up their possession and relocating on a flying Cathouse circling a rock—did object. After several threats to bring in private security, and counter threats by the American military to declare the station off limits, a compromise had been reached. It was determined that the Army would furnish a Shore Patrol to maintain some semblance of order. The term Shore Patrol was somewhat incorrect, given the situation. But in as much as the Army had rejected an offer from the Marines assigned to guard the base and brig on the planet below to accept their traditional role as Military Police, as it had done with the Navy for centuries, at least the term lent an air of functionality to an otherwise bogus operation.
Whatever happened, the station was just too far away from anything or anybody of importance to matter. The base commander, in exchange for steering trouble away from certain areas, was given a suite of rather plush rooms liberally termed an office by the corporation. The arrangement worked well for about a month. Then, having had enough time to blow over, it was Saturday night as usual with two noticeable exceptions—there would be no further interruptions of cash flow back to the investors, and the Army found itself in complete control of anything coming on to or off of the Little Boston Orbiter.
The arrival of phEY-QUAD attracted little or no attention. There was nothing unusual about a cargo hauler of her size logging in for a two- or three-week layover for R&R and repairs. The fact that the Malacan ban on the area was technically still in effect neither phased nor alarmed the station security staff. Little Boston was a risk under the best of circumstance. The request for Military supply for five Marines was in order and scheduled by Griffen on the planet, so the granting of open liberty was given to the crew of phEY-QUAD.
* * *
They approached the station docking area from the planet side. The troops with the first passes were reissued their civilian clothing and exchange script for the cash they had in their pockets or on their cards when they were inducted. Maysfield and Christopher prepared to embark for the Marine Sub Station at Bradley. Their Malacan pilot got clearance and disembarked with his human cargo before the docking had been completed. Through the external monitors, Christopher watched the immense craft collide into dock and hang there like an ornament on some bizarre Christmas tree, bobbing and twisting as the station rotated. As they pulled further away, he could see the lights at the external departure hatches ignite as the locking chutes were extended to attach the vessel and temporarily join it to its arteries and veins.
He watched as the exercise completed, then turned his attentions to the landing field below. Unlike the Marine Air Stations on less hospitable planets, there would be no sudden flash as they entered the frequency change band. First the planet, then the station would simply rise towards them and the small shuttle would gently touch the firmament and stop moving. As he watched the proximity decrease, Christopher fished through the pocket of his jumpsuit for his note pad. There were a few elementary scratches:
See Gunny Shaffer: New sled dog and Lt. Kelly & co.
Take Maysfield to station and get him laid!
Christopher looked at his coarse notes and chuckled. He had written the scribbles almost a week earlier after one of his increasingly numerous clashes with Abner. He drew the pen from the slot in his sleeve pocket and etched the word drunk over the word laid. He added the footnote,
Be certain to do same for self, with or without Abner.
“Thank God!” he thought. “By mid-week, we can turn the troops over to Kelly and his crew, then sit back and whack it. This may be the shot we all need to straighten us out. ”
* * *
They hit the Flight Line G landing strip with something less than grace and bounced along the asphalt to a stammering halt. Christopher had forgotten that there were major differences between Malacan and Marine fliers. G was the designated strip for incoming craft specifically for Corps usage. It was self-sufficient and maintained three crafts, a shuttle and two transfer vehicles, that fulfilled the same purposes the old C-30 aircraft had. Shedding the jumpsuits, they climbed out onto the runway and picked their way carefully through the massive yellow gear jockeying the shuttles around and headed directly towards the G hanger. They entered through the hanger, and an engine repair crew directed them to Gunny’s office. As they approached, Christopher could see through the glass door a pencil-thin Marine with the three-over-two stripes of a gunnery sergeant towering over a young corporal who was made even smaller by virtue of the fact that he was sitting down. The giant turned his head to glance through the door at the activities in the hanger in what was obviously a conditioned reflex, and spied the two flight-grade Marines approaching. A broad smile filled his overly-thin face, and he rushed through the door so startling quickly that Christopher froze.
“JEEEsus H. Christ! Abner Willie Maysfield! You old sonovabitch, I thought you’d taken a cushy desk job and dropped out of the fleet years ago!” shouted the Gunny as he bounded through the office door and actually made a run at them. A huge paw extended towards Maysfield who, for once, smiled a complete smile. For a split second Christopher, who had never seen such phenomena, was certain Abner’s face would crack.
“Hullo, Herb,” Abner exhaled. “Damned good to see you too!” Maysfield caught the paw midway. “I want you to meet my NCOIC—Sergeant Christopher!”
“Gunnery Sergeant Christopher! Colonel Griffen sends his compliments and has asked me to be the first to congratulate you.”
Christopher just stared at Schaffer. “C’mon in my office, lad. I’ll explain it all to you while we tune up on some twenty-five-year-old hootch that some droolin’ old Master Sergeant ordered special delivery from the exchange at Parris Island. It’ll make you feel at home.”
The newly made Gunny dragged up the rear as the two old cronies meandered towards Schaffer’s cubicle. Who have you heard from? Did you hear about so-and-so? Ain’t it a shame about what’s-his-face! The flow of the mundane was endless to Christopher, who was dying a slow death to find out how he had made Gunnery Sergeant, moving from E5 to E7 in the wink of an eye. In the back of his head, he heard a little voice asking over and over again, "What’s wrong with this picture?”
Schaffer climbed into his chair as the steady stream of social commentary continued. Christopher sat politely on an old cargo box for about ten minutes until, at last, Schaffer got around to business. He turned at last to his number one boy, “Henry,” he said to the long faced, bespectacled Corporal sitting at the corner desk, “Henry, I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Master Sergeant Abner Maysfield. And that’s his boss, Gunny Christopher. Why don’t you go take us off the clock and round us up four glasses and... maybe a little ice?” Asking for ice here was like digging for gold in a backyard in Jersey, but Henry did it. The four sat there in that tight little office and brought the picture up to speed.
“Don’t look so surprised, Gunny. If you can’t remember seeing the paperwork, you never stopped being a Staff Sergeant! There was no review board, nothin’. Griff said he was gonna demote you, then shot you into space. You know how it works. A flight-grade can be...
“Can be meritoriously promoted in the field. Right!” The little voice in the back of his head was now shouting, Buy-off, Buy-off! “What was I meritoriously promoted for?” he grunted cynically.
“Damned if I know, Gunny. Griff never told me that. Anyway, things ain’t lookin’ good at home. There’s a Congressional Committee in Washington set up to determine if we’re going out of business. S’posed to be some big debate or some such in about a week to settle the issue. From what the papers are saying, it looks like we’re gonna be absorbed by the Army.”
“Scary, ain’t it,” Maysfield mused as he swirled the brown liquid in the bottom of his glass.
“More than you think,” Schaffer replied. “Wait till you meet the Doggy runnin’ this place. That’s if you can get him off the Orbiter. Be that as it may, what—besides a bottle of Scotch—brings you boys to my end of the universe?”
The look that shot from Maysfield to Christopher told Gunny Schaffer instantly that something was up. Christopher fished through the pockets of his shirt, produced an order for supply, and handed it to Schaffer. Schaffer’s eyebrows rose.
“Whoa, Devil Dog. Griff never mentioned anything about getting you boys supplies! Can’t help you. Especially in these quantities! What the hell are you guys travellin’ with, the entire Second Battalion? We get what we need, and that’s it! The base CO removed us from Quarter Master. All I do now is unload the trucks, so to speak. You gotta see the Army for this, and this shit ain’t gonna fly with them! Hell, you need an officer just to present them with the damned requisition, and he’s gotta supervise the move and sign off on delivery! What in God’s name do you need all this stuff...” Schaffer looked up.
The looks on the faces of the flight-grades smacked of something, if not directly covert, at least under a blanket. An uneasy moment of silence hung over the room. Maysfield’s eyes drifted to the Corporal sitting behind the hometown newspaper he was reading, then back to Schaffer.
“Don’t worry ‘bout Henry, Abner. He’s one of us! The lad’s only been here four months, and already he’s my number one man.” It wasn’t a great answer, but it would have to do. Maysfield accepted it as such only because he knew the man who had offered it as an answer.
“Herb, we got almost a full training battalion in the cargo hold of that flyin’ junkyard we came in. Griff’s got us buildin’ four platoons of old fashioned ground troops—and not a one a’ them taller than five foot two!” The words hadn’t even faded in the air when Henry dropped his paper flat on the desk.
“You’re training Malacan Marines?”
“No. We’re training Marines. 185 of them, including four females. And every one of them has a by-God green card. And that stays in this room!”
Schaffer stared at his friend with a stunned look of disbelief. Then out of nowhere a grin crossed his face and he turned to his corporal. “Henry, pay attention! This is how you get to be a Sergeant Major! Abner, you’re so full of shit your hair is brown!” he said, laughing. “You old bastard! That’s the best razz I’ve heard since—”
”Herb, I ain’t kiddin’! Bobby, you tell’em! This knot-head ain’t gonna believe me no matter what I say!”
“It’s true, Gunny. Every word of it! I have no idea why Griff went this way instead of takin’ them all through Parris Island, but sure as hell we got through Phases One and Two and are sittin’ smack in the middle of Three. Abner may be a little quick in calling them ground troops, technically they’re all under open contracts, so—”
“Open contracts, my aunt Alice! You gotta see these little killers shoot! Herb, they’re—”
“Abner, we’re firing weapons a century old or worse! We can’t even—”
And they were off! Schaffer and his corporal sat there quietly as the two flight-grades started verbally pounding on each other.
After about three or four minutes, Gunny Schaffer turned to his number one man and softly said, “See what you can find for us.” The corporal nodded and rose from his seat, slipping quietly past the vigorous debate that was going on before him. He left the room and vanished into the hangar. His boss waited for a break in the action.
“Fellas,” he offered into the contest at the first opportunity, “why don’t you hammer out the details some other time. We gotta catch Kelly’s crew before they launch for the Orbiter.”
* * *
They argued right across the field following Schaffer as he walked, hands behind his back and head slightly down. If you didn’t know the Gunny, you’d say he was deep in thought. The truth was, he’d hurt his back slightly a few months earlier and hadn’t said anything to anybody for fear of being relieved of duty—or, worse, discharged. It was healing, but slowly. He tended to meander when he walked, only straightening when in a hurry, angered, or in front of officers. He had a reasonably spotless record and was on the most recent list for promotion to Master Sergeant.
To the casual observer, Gunny would have seemed rather uninterested by the raging conversation. In reality, he was taking in every word and drawing his own conclusions rapidly.
He didn’t know Christopher, except for rumors that were starting to circulate around the fleet. It took a guy with a set the size of cannonballs to stick his face in Maysfield’s face, and yet there he was—dancing cheek to cheek with the Old Master, as it were. Schaffer liked that. On the other hand, he'd known Abner Willie well enough and long enough to know that he didn’t waste his time on the trivial. At his age and rank, a trip through the galaxy was highly unusual and even more unlikely. This wasn’t a dog and pony show. Something was up. Something big.
And then there was Griffen. Whatever Griff was doing was anybody’s guess. He had a hand-selected crew on a garbage scow training green card-carrying aliens to be Marines. Damned if that don’t beat all!
Schaffer stopped abruptly and his two shadows nearly marched up his keester before being startled to a crashing halt by the crew approaching. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I give you Lieutenant M. Kelly and team.”
“Oh, shit!” Maysfield gasped in near horror as he looked up and over Schaffer’s sagging shoulder. “MOLLYS!”
* * *
They hadn’t cared too much for Broad Assed Marines, so the word BAM, when referring to the female counterpart of the male Marine, had been dropped from the language. Not that it stopped anybody from using the term, but it did raise all kinds of hell as the percentages of women in the Corps began, by law, to increase. As the numbers of the Corps itself had drastically decreased, and the usage of WMs—Women Marines—in areas traditionally held by men became more and more common, the term BAM became more and more of a problem again. More directives were issued threatening imprisonment or discharge, and the term BAM began to slowly disappear. It was replaced, as it were, with the term FMs, or Fleet Meat, which was itself a condensation of the phrase Meat for The Fleet. Needless to say, that didn’t float with the WMs either, and another internal uproar began. Finally, Griffen, besieged and inundated as the shit began filtering down, had had it. Instead of the usual memos and directives, he used the underground to put the following word out to the fleet:
KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF! OR AT LEAST USE A TERM LESS COLORFUL! AND THAT’S AN ORDER! THEY DO THE SAME JOBS YOU DO, SO LEAVE ’EM ALONE OR I’LL MANUFACTURE JOBS FOR YOU THAT WILL KEEP YOU AS BUSY AS THIS BULLSHIT IS KEEPING ME!
The message was received and understood. No more BAM, no more FM.
They toyed with the word SQUID, but as that had been used to refer to female military of the Naval persuasion for nearly a century, it was dismissed. What was needed was something with style; with charm as befitted the situation.
It was surely the hand of God that caused Hurricane Edna to hit the coast of Louisiana, bringing with it devastating floods that threatened the City of New Orleans—and a full platoon of Marine Engineers to help with the defense of that grand old town. Lo and behold, as the storm and crisis passed, a number of them found themselves staring at the first statue of a woman in uniform in the United States. As the clouds fled by and the rosy rays of dawn thumbed the darkness aside, there she stood in all her glory. A crusted bronze plaque at the base read:
MOLLY MARINE
November 10, 1943.
in honor of Women Marines who serve their country in keeping
with the highest traditions of the United States Marine Corps
A rather confused corporal from the mid-west
remarked to the old Master Sergeant standing next to him observing the wondrous
sight, “Hell, sir. I always thought a Molly was a small tropical fish you keep
in your aquarium!”
“Lad,” the old Leatherneck responded, “it does. And it is! And they bite!”
* * *
“That’s Lieutenant Molly, Master Sergeant!” Whatever had been going through Maysfield’s mind got put on the back burner, and quickly! He needn’t be reminded again that he was addressing an officer of the Corps. He snapped to.
“H’yes, Ma’am!”
Kelly was flanked by two WMs of the rank of sergeant, both of whom rolled their eyes as if to convey the message "we haven’t got a clue what’s going on with her" but maintained silence. The Lieutenant’s almost hostile stare turned past Schaffer towards Christopher.
“Well, well. Sergeant Christopher...”
“That’s Gunnery Sergeant Christopher, Ma’am.”
“Right! Last time I saw you, you were inspecting a Colonel’s wife for ticks at a staff party.”
“And the last time I saw you, you were Staff Sergeant Esparenza. Have I missed something in the last eighteen months, Ma’am?”
Kelly chose to ignore the remark, but shot a look that let Christopher know that it would be dealt with at a latter time.
“Gunnery Sergeant Christopher, my two aides will inform you of our training schedule. I’m due at the base commander’s office on the orbiter. I’ll be back at 21:00 hours and review the details with you myself.” She snapped a high one, which was dutifully returned, and headed towards the shuttlecraft at the near end of the field. The quintet stood silently for a moment watching her.
“Hell,” said Maysfield to no one in particular. “Does she always ear dress blues in ninety-eight degree weather?”
The shorter of the two WMs hung her head and placed her hands on her hips. She exhaled heavily and looked up at Maysfield. “Only in the last three or four days. Before that she was perfectly sane—for an officer!”
“Hell,” said Maysfield, “this is gonna be a lot more formal that I thought it was going to be.”
“Ya know, when we got here a week ago,” the taller of the two WMs interjected, “she was a good boss. Seventy-two hours up there in Army heaven, and she turned into the Bride of Frankenstein.”
“The Orbiter?”
“That’s right, Gunny. She started going up to that orbiter and… man, she turned into a bickering old maid! Never saw anything like it. I don’t know what they’ve got goin’ up there, but it sure as shit didn’t do anything for her!”
“I take it neither of you two have been there for more than a few minutes yet?” Christopher asked. Both heads shook affirmatively. “Ladies, come with me. Gunny, I need your radio. We’ve got to get these ladies some ear pieces.”
* * *
“Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Stone! This Recruit has a problem, Staff Sergeant!”
Stone sat back in his chair. One look at the Recruit in front of him and the problem was obvious. His civilian clothing hung on him like an old burlap bag. “Staff Sergeant. This recruit looks like shit, sir! This Recruit requests permission to wear his uniform on leave, Staff Sergeant.”
Stone studied the saggy looking Boot but saw beyond him. As he stood in the doorway, Stone saw past him into the squad bay. At every bunk, trousers hung so loosely at the waste they refused to stay up. A goodly number had the situation made worse by blouses that couldn’t be buttoned. At 3031 and 32, the same problem was also becoming obvious. Stone wouldn’t have believed that anything could have made these guys look worse than the ill-fitting uniforms they had been given, but this topped that by a mile. The squad bay looked like the clown’s dressing room at Barnum & Bailey’s. Stone lowered his head and sent the Recruit back with the order to hold on dressing.
He left his hut for the other DI quarters, but was met halfway by both Sabott and Rojas. “Jesus, we can’t send them out like that! They stick out like a sore thumb!” Rojas said in a hushed tone.
“Hell, they ain’t got Khakis, they ain’t got Dress Blues," Sabott said. "We send them out in the camy, it’s a Dungaree Liberty! We get bagged for that and—”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT, SABOTT, WE...” Stone calmed himself. “We’re sending Third Phase boots out on an eighteen at an Army-run installation, and you’re worried about Dungaree Liberty? We get caught, Dungaree Liberty is the least of our worries!” The sheer reality of Stone’s statement hit home quickly. That was the size of things. It really didn’t make any difference what they were wearing. It was serious beyond the point of worrying about dress codes. “Fuck, we dress ’em in camys, order them to keep a low profile, and worry our nuts off until we’re outa here!”
“Yeah,” Rojas mused, “I agree.” He looked at Sabott. “What’s the difference. We stickin’ our necks out to cut the boys a break, it doesn’t matter what they’re wearing. Besides, these rags are so old, no one’s gonna think they’re Marine uniforms.”
“Right! Now call ’em together and read ’em our rights. OH! Roach drew a winner; screw the Master Sergeant on this one. Roach is moving towards the edge as it is. Let’s launch him with the first wave. The little bastard deserves some slack. I’ll hook up with the boss and let him know they’re coming.”
* * *
“Now listen up! Against all better judgment, we’re launching you for eighteen hours off this rig. ALL THE RULES CONCERNING SUCH ITEMS AS... ALCOHOL... DRUGS... TOBACCO... STILL APPLY! Conduct yourselves properly.
“It is best understood, except for those operating this ship and a few Marine and Malacan officials, nobody knows who or what you are. LET’S KEEP IT THAT WAY. The official word given to the Army to obtain permission for R&R is that you are a Continuum Crew working for the Corps to develop new methods for external repairs at continuum speeds. AS SUCH! Under the Steffson-BreeHUO Act, you are military employees and as such, the Army Ops can commandeer you for ANY REASON! DO NOT RESIST, DO NOT ARGUE... DO AS YOU ARE TOLD IF IT IS A LAWFUL ORDER! If the Army gets wind of what we’re up too, there’ll be all hell to pay.
“Conduct yourselves properly! In the event that you wander into a combative situation, that is, a fistfight, TAKE YOUR OWN LIFE! WE DON’T WANT YOU BACK! You should know better. Don’t get into a pissing contest with the Army.”
Roach stood at the back of the line. The earpieces were a tad large for him and they bothered his internal lobes. What Stone had to say just slipped by him. He was trying to decide what appealed more to him, the idea of an eighteen away from the world that had turned inside out, or the thought that Stone was countering Maysfield’s directive to keep him on board cleaning heads and field daying squad bays till crack of doom. He had been cheated on Salo Majoris. Not this time, baby. His pockets were full, his duds were new (well, in a bizarre way), and he was greased and ready to kick ass! And the sweetest part of the whole deal? He was unshackled from the Butthead of all Buttheads—no Arnold for a whole eighteen hours! Man! Stand back! He was overdue and good to go. Nothing—NOTHING—could stop him now!
* * *
“Yo, short dick! Get in the ga’damned line!”
He looked at the Marine corporal with the weird glass things in front of his eyes. He hadn’t even made it off the runway from the shuttle to the Orbiter, and he had been netted! The door opened and BANG! Ambushed by another Marine! What the fuck could this guy want with a four-man work crew out here? Roach’s head swung from left to right to survey the corridors in both directions. Doors, whores, and stores—that’s it! What the hell can this guy want? And want with me! he thought as the smile disappeared that had been pasted to his face from the moment he had been absolved of the Maysfield sentence. It was replaced by a rising anger. He could feel the corners of his eyes starting to burn as the corneas began to dilate and retract. He felt a hand on his shoulder gently shaking him.
“Let’s go, killer.” It was Lewis, another victim of the latest draft. “No reason to argue with the man.”
Roach’s head sank onto his chest. “Sir! The recur—”
Lewis threw an elbow into his rib cage with a great deal of force.
“Uh..." Roach backpedaled from his slip of the tongue. "Ah, the ship’s industrial refuse engineer would like to volunteer for the detail. Sir!”
“I t’thought so!” the Corporal replied. “Ff’Follow me, gentleman. Our coach awaits.”
They walked from docking port M clear across the docking area to docking port E, and boarded a cargo hauler with Marine markings on the hatches. They followed the corporal with the slight stutter past the seating directly into the cargo hold. Through the open doors they could see straight into the cockpit. Instead of belting down, they followed the corporal’s lead and straddled the support beams that reinforced the cargo hold walls and lifted off. As soon as the hauler had detached from the Orbiter, the corporal’s face seemed to fade from its hard, angular setting to a relaxed softness. He sat on the deck and leaned against the beam. “At ease, f'fellas,” he said, “ we don’t stand on to much f'formality here.”
Before any of the boots could react, there was a sudden rolling noise that seemed to shoot from the cockpit and head towards them. All eyes turned in the direction of the noise to see a quart of Vodka coming at them, followed by a cartoon of cigarettes that the co-pilot had winged at the corporal.
“Guys,” said the corporal, “I’m r’really sorry to screw up your t'time off… but I need some help, and n’nailing you as you came off the bus from home was the least obvious way of doing it. Now have a drink, light ’em up, and relax. We got a real dangerous job ahead of us. We get caught—we all go to jail! Any questions so far?” A grin swept his face as he uttered the last few words.
“Yeah!” said Roach. “Who the hell are you?”
“You don’t need to know me. I don’t n’need to know who you are.”
“I don’t believe this!” Lewis shook his head. “I’m gonna be court-martialed before I get to graduate. Look! If this is anything illegal...”
“Weelll, 'illegal' is such a strong word… Let’s just say we’re cutting down on governmental red tape for the good of the Corps and your training exercise.” With that, the corporal pulled a small newspaper from inside his jumpsuit and made his face disappear behind it. The statement was clear. No more questions!
The craft was barely a spacecraft. It was meant strictly for shuttle purposes, so it took almost ten minutes to reenter the planet’s atmosphere. As soon as they had crossed into the air level, the corporal folded his paper and replaced it into the inner pocket of his suit. The elected work crew watched with stunned surprise as he rose and unzipped and then removed his Marine Green jumpsuit, and replaced it with the light brown of an Army flyer. He did up the last zipper and sat down on the deck again. From a tool compartment attached to the wall, he produced a small white box. Removing the lid, he began poking his finger through it.
Roach, who had been sitting quietly next to him throughout the trip, leaned forward and pushed his face over the box until his forehead almost touched the corporal’s. The Terran raised his face and said curtly, “You don’t see me doing any of this!” With that, he removed two small bits of metal from the box. While Roach had never actually seen them in real life, he knew what they were. His eyes widened in innocent disbelief. “Okay,” he said, “I don’t see nothin’!”
“Good man!” the Marine responded. “Whatcha t'think, Short Stuff, the gold or the silver?” Roach’s eyes rose from the metal in the corporal’s palm.
“If you’re gonna do what I think you’re gonna do, you may as well go as a captain!”
The Marine nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that’s t'true. They can only hang me once!” With that, he pinned the silver captain’s bars to the slotted collar of the jump suit.
* * *
“It gives a whole new meaning too in your ear, don’t it!” Tozzi looked up at Maysfield. “These little things are going to protect me from my own wild desires, huh?”
“Near as we can tell, Terry. The atmosphere seems to filter out the sub-audible frequencies, probably dilutes them by the light spectrum. But things must be wild on that orbiter after you’ve been there for a while. Based on our research, Terrans are slightly more than twenty percent as susceptible to the effects of the dead black hole as the Malacans. It won’t hit you as hard as quickly, but your boss...”
“Are you going to continue your research, Gunny?”
“As long as the canned corned beef holds out,” Christopher said over his shoulder as he helped Fletcher into her pressure suit.
“I’m sorry—If the what holds out?”
“Don’t worry about it, now. Just make sure you’re plugged in if you’ve got to hit that Orbiter. AND! Whatever you do, stay clear of soft music!”
* * *
“Captain Henry! This is very irregular, sir. I’m gonna have to get higher clearance to move this much stuff. Especially at 14:00 hours, sir. Hell, Captain, these guys aren’t even Army. They’re not even human!”
He was looking at Roach when he said it, and it didn’t sit well. The work crew was beginning to twitch; the bird wasn’t going to fly. 21,000 American soldiers on this rock walking around with their heads up their butts, and they had to pick the one corporal that actually knew and understood the regulations. Someone had to do something or five careers were going to end prematurely.
“E-fuckin’-nuff!” It was Lewis, stomping and pawing at the ground with his foot. He threw down his work gloves and spun around to face the captain. “I don’t care what the General wants! We get our asses up at three o’clock—”
“Two!” Roach corrected casually.
“Two! Two o’clock in your morning to move an entire warehouse for this exercise and... Doesn’t this colonel of yours have any authority?” Then Lewis was off on a vehement tirade about Army inefficiency and interplanetary incidents and why the Malacans should never have gotten mixed up with this branch of earth’s military. What he was saying was not impressing the Army corporal for its content, but the fact that he was saying it all in English was. Pseudo-Captain Henry followed cue and jumped in with all manners of apologies and excuses and, as the entire work crew led by the indignant Lewis began to turn and leave, ordered the Army corporal to apologize and start obeying orders. The volume level was beginning to rise to a fever pitch. Across the yard, lights were snapping on and yells to “shut the fuck up!” were echoing throughout the yard.
The ploy to divert attention away from the actual event and confuse the security team had only partially worked. The security team indeed was confused—not, however, to the point of letting them pass just to shut the noise off. Something had to be done.
“I dunno,” said the corporal in charge. “This is beyond me. Williams, get on the horn and blow up the MPs. Let them get the Colonel outa bed!”
Roach shot a look at Henry. The Military Police? The jig was up.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS... GOIN’ ON HERE?” The roaring voice seemed to thunder from the rear of the crowd. They all spun to see a large man in field clothes that had obviously dressed in a hurry; half the buttons on his tunic were still unfastened, swaggered towards the artificial riot.
“Top sergeant!” The corporal snapped to. “The captain here has an order from the colonel to remove...”
“They’ve got an order? A written order? From the colonel? What in the hell IS YOUR DAMN PROBLEM, MURPHY?”
“But... sir, they’re not, not—”
“They? Who they? They who!”
“Them, sir!” The corporal pointed a finger at Roach, who just shook his head in disgust. He turned to the private standing next to him.
“Excuse me! Joe! Do I have a sign on my back that says, ‘Idle spaceman, pick me’?”
“Hhmmmm,” mused the Top. “Murphy, give me that damned order.” The old Top studied the order in the pale moonlight. He held the paper in his right hand, twisting it to catch as much of the moonlight and whatever illumination the two small glow plugs over the supply house door had to offer. His left hand fished along his massive chest to fasten his buttons. As a hush centering on the NCO grew in intensity, Roach started to study the giant looming in front of them. His eyes widened as he studied the man.
“Gees,” he whispered to Lewis, “this bastard don’t need a rifle. I bet he can manually insert a bullet!”
The Top lowered the paper and looked at the work crew. His eyes lifted to the fake captain. For one fleeting moment, his eyes darted around the baseball-style cap he wore and his face grew tense. Henry was certain he’d been made and was preparing to call for a retrograde advance, on the double, when the Top Sergeant’s face relaxed and he offered the paperwork back to Henry.
“Orders are orders, corporal. Open up and let ’em in.”
Henry felt his heart start beating again. "Why, thank you, Top Sergeant… uh...” Henry pushed his face forward to read the name bar over the Top’s pocket. “…Kazga! Top Sergeant Kazga.”
The Top pushed his face into Henry’s. It was scarred and seemed oddly ancient. “Listen up, High and Tight!” he whispered. “This paperwork of yours is as phony as a seven dollar bill. I don’t know what you and your boys are up to. It’s too big to be a gag, and too out in the open to be a black market operation. I’ve been around long enough to learn when to let sleeping dogs lie! Now get a move on, Jarhead, and get outa here before we all get crucified.”
Roach had been hanging at Henry’s flank, absolutely amazed at Kazga’s decision to let things get by him. “Uh, ‘scuse me, Top,” he sheepishly interjected. “Would you know where we can get a cup of coffee? I really think it would speed things up.”
RCT. S. L. CHRISTOPHER
SS# 237 44 9013
PLATOON 8141
2nd BATTALION M CO
POB 130706
PARRIS ISLAND, S.C., U.S.A., EARTH
MCRD 29905, 13006
Saturday, May 5, 2086
…well, Sam, you should have seen the faces of those 120 Boots left on ship when those two WMs walked onto the deck. They were some gals, Sam. Most of those recruits had never seen an Earth woman before, and their physiques were a complete mystery. Jan Fletcher was one of the best scrappers I ever knew. But Tozzi! She was an artist of pugilistic motion! To look at her, you would have thought ‘who the hell is she kidding!’ She was barely tall enough to qualify as a Marine, but man was she tough! Unfortunately, after two phases of Boot Camp, the troops had learned to read the DIs pretty well, and neither Maysfield nor myself, nor the other guys for the most part, were really thrilled that Griff had sent three Mollys to instruct our little tribe in personal warfare. The Boots knew it, and it showed.
It’s true, you know. Prejudices die hard. Abner and I were dumb old asses and we’d gotten use to some wiry-looking guy jumping up and down and whipping the troops up to a killer frenzy. We learned the hard way that, in this case, the best man for the job WAS a woman...
“This is Tozzi’s first rule!” She had Sabott’s hand and was spreading his fingers apart, two fingers in each of her small mitts, spreading them apart and driving her left elbow in the joint of his right arm so it became the fulcrum point of all her focused energy. Sabott was crumpling like a house of cards in the breeze. “If you can get in close enough to catch a hand, break your enemy’s fingers. HE—or she—will cooperate almost immediately. IF they go down, a nice strooong thumb driven into the windpipe or breathing apparatus WILL END THE CONFRONTATION!” Now Sabott was kneeling and smacking at her left hand, which was rapidly crushing his windpipe. “If you wish to take a life...”
Sabott was now slapping at the ground, simultaneously kneeling and doubling over. The eyes of the boots were wider than Sabott’s. They had never seen a DI turn purple before. Some had believed that such a thing was not possible.
Tozzi realized she was no longer the center of attention and looked down. “Oh, Christ!” She released her grip and let Sabott slip to the floor. “Sorry, Sergeant. I’m a little out of practice.”
While Tozzi pushed Sabott and Rojas around the deck, Fletcher began to weave through the ranks studying the Corps’ latest raw material. They were top heavy and only fairly quick looking. But what the sit reps had indicated was that most of them were superior in physical strength compared to Terrans. If you could keep away from them until an angle could be had, they were beatable. Fletcher imagined a neck lock would be the way to go. They couldn’t reach over their necks well. Yeah, that would be the way to go.
The final hour of the first lesson went to Tozzi, who instructed the Boots in the correct way to fall. She called them to platoon formations, which went well enough… but when she called “dismissed” there was only an eerie stillness as nobody moved. Moved? Hell, nobody so much as blinked.
“Dismissed!”
Nothing. In frustration, Tozzi looked at Sabott. When he called, they moved. As the deck cleared, Fletcher turned to the two DIs.
“What the hell do you guys have here? A private force? They don’t know anything about obeying command?”
“Hell, Tozzi. They don’t even know what a woman is. You expect them to jump when—”
“You’re ga’damned right I do! If they pull that shit on Kelly, with the way she’s been acting, she’ll court-martial the lot of them!”
“That reminds me,” Rojas looked at the ground as he talked, “I think you both better come with me. Let me show you what we’re dealing with. You ladies are going to have to get Kelly to use these ear pieces on that Orbiter, or she’s goin’ to find herself in much big hurt.”
Tozzi, who was toweling off, just smiled. “Staff Sergeant, I wouldn’t worry about the Lieutenant. She can more than take care of herself.”
* * *
They were flying! With a little help from some six-hour-old bilge water Army security had brewing away in the guard shack, the four Malacans started flashing around the warehouse like nothing any Terran except Christopher had ever seen.
“Captain, my apology.” Offered Murphy to the bars on Henry’s jumpsuit. “I really didn’t think that the colonel would send only five guys for a job this big! Man-o-man, they’re movin’ enough supplies for a Battalion or better!”
Henry had thought it prudent to turn his back to the Corporal and keep his face in darkness. A lot of eye contact could be damaging at the court-martial.
“No need for apologies, Murphy. Just, uh, stand clear and let these men—uh, beings work.” With that he ran into the darkness after the work crew. They were moving at a fantastic clip, boxes upon boxes of dry and canned goods, enough frozen food for months. They even managed to locate and confiscate 8,000 servings of MRTs, the upgraded equivalent of the MRE, C and K rations they had grown so fond of. When they had finished filling the larders, they hit the dry goods area. Underclothing, footwear, even some insulated winter gear. Then their luck really took an upswing—rain gear and bug spray.
Henry was learning the same lesson Christopher had learned. He had underestimated the energy the Malacans put into their work. On top of it all, they were organized now and knew exactly what to look for. They completely filled both two-ton haulers that they had brought, and still had almost a quarter of what they’d gathered to go. It was too late to take this stuff back, unload, and return. The five of them stood there, alone inside the warehouse wondering what to do. It was all usable spoils, but it was just too risky to come back.
“Well?” asked Roach, still chomping at the caffeine bit. “Do we leave it or what, mastermind?”
“We can’t leave it," Henry muttered. "Our prints are all over those boxes.”
“Prints? We’re worried about prints?”
Lewis thought for a moment, then walked away from the group back towards the security booth mumbling to himself.
“Let’s go,” muttered Roach to the perspiring crew. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but it’s gonna be good. When he starts talking to himself, something’s cookin’!” They turned and followed the point man to the corporal of the guard.
“Kid,” he called out, bold as brass, “we got us a problem. We underestimated the amount of carry space we required. You got anybody around here with a truck that can give us a lift back to our platform?” The corporal shuffled his feet and looked anxiously around. “And, uh, by the way, old Captain Henry… well, he’s a little pissed about you makin’ him look bad in front of us. He’s gonna look that much worse when it gets out that he came in short on trucks. I’m sure you know how officers are by now. Out here. In the middle of nowhere. Always trying to look good, to get transferred to some place that doesn’t flush! He’s gonna take it out on somebody. If you could swing a truck or two, you know, nice and quiet like? He’d look good to Command, you’d look good to him, we’d forget all the unpleasantness earlier on... everybody goes home happy! Huh?”
The corporal studied the short specter standing in front of him. There was a certain merit in what he had to say. The corporal raised both hands about waist high, made a motion that indicated “wait here,” and slid across the empty yard, disappearing in the darkness. Lewis motioned the others forward.
“Well?”
“I think he’s getting us a truck.”
“Get the fuck outa here! No way!”
“Oh, yeah. Just make certain, Captain, that if our friend comes back with transportation, you give him a nice big Army salute, get in it, back it into the warehouse, and don’t say another word.”
To say the least, Henry was more than a little impressed. “Roger that, Marine!” he responded to the three-quarter-sized creature in front of him.
" Not yet," Lewis mumbled, “but I’m working on it.” He never took his eyes off the darkness Corporal Murphy had walked off into. Two thin pinpoints of light were beginning to glow ahead of them, and the rumble of a heavy machine could be heard. Grinding towards the small squad was a brand new yellow transport bus used to carry newly arrived Army troops and VIPs in air-conditioned comfort from the landing field to their barracks or quarters on the Orbiter. As the bus pulled sideways up the curb in front of them, along the side was a large advertisement-like sign with the words:
“Army - Be all that you can be.”
Wait’ll they figure out what we were up to, Murphy! the artificial officer thought to himself. A Corporal is all you’ll ever be!
